


A Welcome Distraction

by Etheostoma



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Grumpy Javert, M/M, Morning Sex, Sleepy Kisses, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26515276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etheostoma/pseuds/Etheostoma
Summary: “It is embarrassing, that’s what it is—a fifty-some police officer breaking his big toe on the corner molding of his house?!” Javert lets out a self-deprecating laugh, knuckles white where they clench at his long hair.“I will never hear the end of it.”
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	A Welcome Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> This is most assuredly a non-specified modern AU, with all background details left deliberately vague due to laziness on the author’s part.
> 
> The motivation? I may have experienced a very similar injury myself the other day and decided that Javert needed to suffer with me. 
> 
> And, for some reason, it took on a life of its own and somehow seemed the perfect prompt to serve as my segue into writing some smut for the fandom….so, yes.
> 
> (comments and kudos are love)

“You need to get it looked at,” Valjean tells Javert, exasperated. His normally genial expression is nowhere to be found, his eyes instead narrowed in aggravation and his brows drawn into a stern frown. Javert has come a long way in the time since his aborted jump, but common sense when it comes to personal well-being is still a sore topic between them. His blatant disregard for injuries is infuriating, his inclination throw himself headlong into dangerous situations and his proclivity to avoid doctors and hospitals notorious in both his professional and personal lives.

Thus, it is no surprise at all to Valjean when Javert shifts irritably in his seat and shakes his head quite adamantly. “Absolutely not,” Javert denies, grimacing as he forgets himself and jostles his foot. Flinching, he props it back up and crosses his arms, glowering up at Valjean from his seat on the couch. “It will be fine, I’ll just tape it to the one beside it and go on with my life as usual.”

Valjean sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and raises his eyes skyward. “It’s _broken,_ Javert. Toe or not, it needs to be seen by a doctor at least once to make sure it will heal straight.”

Javert scoffs. “It absolutely is not broken, it is just a sprain.” He hooks his right ankle over the opposite knee so that his foot is turned upward and gently prods at the toe in question. His face remains stoic, but even so Valjean can see him suppress a wince as his finger dances along the swollen skin at the base of the offending digit.

Sinking down onto the cushion besides his partner, Jean lightly touches the dark bruise that spreads across the base of Javert’s foot—it is already double the size that it was earlier in the morning . “Half of your foot is purple, Javert,” he says unnecessarily, prodding the unhappy tissue with the tip of his index finger and wincing in sympathy as Javert flinches. “You need to get an x-ray.”

“And have some nitwit doctor tell me to eliminate all high-impact activity and stay off of it as much as possible for a month or two?” Javert sniffs. “Hardly. I’m an officer of the law _and_ I have to stay fit, I can’t not be on my feet and mobile.”

Valjean reaches deep within himself to dredge up some of his residual wells of patience, knowing that before this ordeal is over he may well have exhausted even his own enormous stores. “You know full and well that Chabouillet will happily accommodate your injury, the man has been trying to get you to take time off for nearly six months now—and don’t you have at _least_ the equivalent of that time available in accumulated vacation and sick leave?”

Javert grunts in reply, still poking irritably at his ill-abused foot.

Taking that as a yes, Jean catches Javert’s hand in one of his own and Javert’s chin in the other. “Please at least go to the urgent care,” he pleads, meeting that frustrated blue-grey gaze with his own earnest hazel. “We are neither of us young men,” he adds wryly, “and don’t heal as quickly as we once did. What are a few weeks to ensure it heals correctly? I would hate for you to lose full mobility by sabotaging yourself with carelessness.”

Javert pulls his lips back from his teeth in a grimace, then lets his face settle into a woebegone frown instead, gingerly lowering his foot to the ground and sagging back into Valjean’s waiting embrace. “I know,” he admits grudgingly, “I _know._ It is simply so terribly _frustrating—“_ Surging forward once more, he gnashes his teeth together, wrapping his ponytail in one fist and tugging in agitation. “And it is _embarrassing—_ a fifty-some-year-old police officer breaking his big toe on the corner molding of his house?!” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh, knuckles white where they clench his hair. “I will never hear the end of it.”

Gently, Valjean pries Javert’s white knuckles from their death grip on his hair, holding his hand captive and bringing it around to press instead against Javert’s chest. “Shit happens,” Valjean murmurs, settling back against the plush back of their functional couch and drawing Javert with him. That startles a snicker out of the other man, for Valjean is seldom one to curse. “You’ll get through it,” the other man continues, “ _we’ll_ get through it, and soon enough it’ll be a thing of the past.”

There is a moment of silence, then Javert sighs loudly, allowing Valjean to scoop him into his arms in earnest and curling back into the shorter man. “I know,” he mutters, turning his head so that he can see Valjean’s face. “I _know.”_ Grumbling indeterminately beneath his breath, he presses his forehead to Valjean’s cheek and sighs loudly. “Fine. We’ll get it looked at—but you are going with me, and whatever timeline the doctor gives us for inactivity we’re dividing by two.”

Valjean laughs. “You may subtract one week, Javert,” he counters, combing an errant strand of hair behind Javert’s ear. “Give the poor toe a fighting chance.” He kisses the frown from Javert’s face, pressing their lips together and cradling the other man’s whiskery cheeks in his palms. He strokes his thumbs across Javert’s cheekbones, lips chasing the stern lines etches into the corners of his mouth.

Sighing, Javert relaxes into his embrace, hands creeping up to card through Valjean’s white halo of hair. “Very well,” he acquiesces. He nips at Valjean’s lips, then draws back slightly to give him a faint, wry grin. “But, I do not take idleness well.”

If Javert’s expression is teasing, Valjean’s answering smile is positively predatory. “Oh, I’m certain we will make do.”

Perhaps, Javert muses, this might not be so bad after all.

— _—_

It is every bit as bad as Javert anticipated—indeed, he might even confess to it being worse.

The toe is quite definitely broken. He is to stay off of it for at least six weeks, with the threat of an extended sentence should his body be slower to mend than anticipated.

Javert gets a splint, a lecture, and a boot; Valjean is hard pressed to say which of the three his partner is less enthused to receive. He handles the check-out, promising to call the referred orthopedic doctor if they don’t hear back soon about the follow-up, and allows Javert to flee to the sanctity of the parking lot, his head turned down and all but buried in the deep collar of his coat.

The receptionist gives him a knowing look. “You’ll have your hands full with that one,” she commiserates, lips quirking.

Valjean’s answering smile is warm and only a touch resigned. “Don’t I know it.”

He hastens outside to rejoin his partner, only halfway joking when he tells himself that it’s to spare any passerby Javert’s ire. _“_ You don’t have to wear it _all_ the time,” Valjean says consolingly as he approaches, catching the distasteful stare being projected at the thick boot. They cross together toward the line of cars, Javert limping along beside him and glaring ferociously at anyone he feels stares too long as they pass. “Only when you are going to be on your feet for extended periods of time.”

Javert lets out a sharp bark of sardonic laughter. “I will hardly be wearing it at all, then, if you have your way.” He flinches away from Jean’s half-extended arm, shrugs in on himself against the cool September air, and strides across the parking lot as imposingly as his foot will allow to Valjean’s garish little MINI Cooper.

In truth, that reality, that forced dependency, is what stings the most of all of this unfortunate scenario. Javert is not designed to be inactive; he cannot sit still, nor does he ever actually do so.

Now, despite the fact his is an injury that barely even _registers_ on the radar of pain and severity compared to some of the more extreme wounds and breaks he has sustained in his line of duty, he is incapacitated just enough to be completely and effectively _useless_. He cannot work to his full ability, he cannot exercise the way he prefers without risking additional fractures to the abused bone—he is grounded for the better part of two months, no questions asked.

He knows Jean is simply trying to be positive—indeed, optimism is ingrained into the man’s core, he would hardly know him without it—but it still rankles, a maddening itch that cannot be scratched and sets Javert’s teeth on edge. Multiple retorts rise, catch in his throat, halt on his tongue, and instead he refrains, gritting his teeth and glaring at the locked car door until Valjean arrives with the keys to unlock it.

Silence hangs heavy between them the entire ride home, Javert half-turned toward the passenger door and scowling out the window. From the stormy cast of his expression, he is quite obviously inclined to remain in his foul mood for the remainder of the day.

“Come to the shelter with me,” Valjean offers as he swings open the door to their modest house, hand ghosting behind Javert’s back as he limps into the foyer and shrugs out of his coat. “We’re sorting donations for a while, and then I am meeting Cosette and Marius for dinner. They have invited you as well.”

Suddenly the thought of going out is unbearable to Javert, the strain of being civil and dealing with society a prescription for disaster in his current mood. Tiredly, he declines with a sharp shake of his head, instead setting himself down on the sofa and reaching for his work laptop.

“I will stay and review some of these case files,” he replies, offering a mundane explanation instead of the countless, more descriptive protests that bubble up to his lips. Ever since his fall— _jump_ , his mind supplies nastily—he is constantly plagued by a multitude of emotions and impulses in any myriad of moods, to which he never gives voice.Stoic and silent, that is Javert. No matter the turmoil that sits simmering beneath his skin, he presents himself as being cool and composed in nearly every instance. “No doubt Rivette is allowing those ninnies I work with to get away with all sorts of inconsistencies in their reports.”

Valjean’s sigh is heavy, as though he knows each and every emotion and complaint Javert is suppressing. Even now, Javert often refuses to dispel his more negative emotions, martyring himself so as not to burden Valjean and make himself appear less than what he is—when, indeed, Valjean knows full and well how he suffers. He shakes his head, lips turning down as he acquiesces. “Very well, stay home in that case.” He does not add that he wishes Javert would confide in him, that he understands, that he does not have to hide his irritation and frustration and fear behind this mask of petulance.

A sharp stab of regret lances through Javert, white-hot, at the frown he receives from Valjean in response to his refusal. It is no easy thing, to love a saint. Despite the fact that Valjean says nothing to discourage Javert from his chosen course of action, the weight of his disappointment crushes Javert like an ant beneath a rock. It settles about his shoulders, a mantle of remorse and regret that he has again failed this man even in the mundane, and yet as he opens his mouth to offer something more the words shrivel and die before they even touch his lips.

With a shake of his head, Valjean leaves Javert on the couch and shuffles through the house, collecting what paraphernalia he will need for the remainder of the day. A terse silence hangs over them, punctuated by the light _tap-tap_ of Javert’s keyboard and the click of his mouse, and the steady tread of Valjean’s feet across the hardwood as he gathers his things and changes into attire better-suited to an evening out with his daughter and son-in-law.

“You will be alright the rest of the day?” he asks, looking down at Javert on the couch as he passes by the living room on his way back to the front door. The other man has settled back against the armrest with a pillow propped behind his back. His long legs are sprawled out along the length of the couch, bad foot now bootless and propped upon a second pillow, the afflicted toe peeping out angrily from beneath its swaddling of bandages.

Javert wets his lips and looks up from his laptop. Apology is writ into his brow, his stormy eyes heavy with the inference that he has once again let Valjean down in this endless tug-of-war between them.

“I will be fine,” he replies, blinking once and then lowering his eyes, shoulders shrugging inward on themselves and reducing his broad frame to a mockery of itself.

Irritated though he still is—time out of the house will do Javert a world of wonder, he knows this well from experience—Valjean finds himself yielding, softening beneath the hurt veneer of Javert’s expression. Though he would never dream of telling the man, with his air of wounded pride and sad eyes Javert resembles little more than a kicked dog, and the sight of it alone is enough to stay his blossoming bad temper and draw him instead over to the couch.

“Call if you need anything,” he tells Javert, placing the policeman’s personal cell on the end table alongside a glass of water and the remote to the television. “Watch a movie, insult a crime show—do something besides just work while I am gone, my dear.” He leans down, brushes his lips across Javert’s brow, chases the frown lines from his forehead with a kiss. “I am not upset, truly. I know you need your space and I was pushing.”

Javert raises his right hand from the keyboard and sets it to the back of Jean’s head, burying his fingers in the white curls there, holding him in place. He tips Jean’s head down just enough to be close enough that he might stretch up and kiss him, silently offering reparation for his sour mood. “Go, enjoy your evening,” he says by way of apology. His thin lips quirk upward in the approximation of a smile. “God knows I will still be here when you return.”

Valjean smiles in return, that beatific genuine grin that always leaves Javert’s knees jelly-weak and his pulse pounding, and squeezes his hand before departing.

As the lock clicks behind him, Javert sighs and turns his gaze back to his computer.

It is going to be a long evening.

——

When Valjean finally returns that night, he finds Javert seated on the top step of the porch in naught but his sleep bottoms, a worn t-shirt, and a coat. His knees are tucked up to his chest and arms wrapped around his shins, feet bare but for the large splint and encircling gauze that encase his maimed digit. His face is tipped upward, tilted toward the sky, his blue-grey eyes bright as the twinkling light from the stars and the luminescent moon catch and scatter in his irises. In silent invitation, Javert scoots slightly to the left, leaving a space wide enough for Jean to settle down beside him.

The older man slides into place and slips an arm against Javert, drawing his torso over until his partner is settled against his shoulder, head sliding into place against the crook of Valjean’s neck. “It’s not the end of the world, you know,” Valjean says softly, lifting his wide palm to Javert’s brow, the sky’s bright glow catching on the silver strands in his hair. “It will heal, and the time off will do you well.” His fingers trail through those gleaming strands, the caress a silent attempt to further mend the rift from their earlier disagreement. “You have been pushing yourself quite hard as of late, perhaps this is God’s way of telling you to slow down.”

Humming, Javert allows the tension to drain from his lean frame, leeching away until he is left pliant and malleable in Valjean’s arms. “I know,” he admits quietly, “it is just so terribly frustrating. It’s a goddamn _toe,_ it shouldn’t put me out of commission for over a month.” He chooses not to initiate a theological debate at the moment—the closest they have come to shared views is agreeing that sometimes “things happen for a reason”—and instead tucks his face away from the world against Valjean’s warm neck.

“You are a damn furnace,” Javert murmurs, not sounding put out by this at all. His inclination to always run cold pairs well with Valjean’s natural body heat, and typically results in his remaining all but plastered to his lover’s side when they are alone in cooler weather. In public, Javert will bear wicked wind and freezing cold and remain wholly aloof rather than show himself to be remotely dependent upon another, but in private he adapts an entirely different strategy.

Jean finds it endearing, will tease Javert about it mercilessly until the other man grows flustered and jerks away, growling under his breath about good-for-nothing ex-cons and public displays of affection.

Tonight, Javert gives himself wholly to the arms of temptation, snuggling up against Valjean’s side in an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability, his eyes downcast and his mouth set in a tight line as he stares, unseeing, at his foot. His hands slip under Valjean’s coat and curl about his waist, still narrow and firm with muscle even after all of these years. “I suppose it is not the end of the world,” he finally says, grudgingly, and Valjean smiles, tightens the arm around Javert’s shoulders, and tucks the other man more securely against himself.

“Most assuredly not,” he murmurs. “It simply means I get you to myself more often.”

They sit in a contented silence for a long while, simply existing together and gazing up at the stars. Lulled by the gentle rise and fall of Javert’s body against him, Valjean finds himself growing drowsy. He can feel the other man slowly sagging against him, and the part of his mind that clings to wakefulness clamors that perhaps they would do well to go inside where it is warmer, and where a bed more comfortable than the brick and cement of their porch step awaits.

He does not move, instead choosing to cling to this moment of moonlit tranquility.

Finally, Javert turns his face up, a sharp, if somewhat sleepy, gleam in his eye that Valjean has not seen once in the days since Javert first injured his foot. It is a mischievous glint, and washes away lines etched by years of stress and severity, lightening Javert’s face to all but transform him into a different man. He squirms in Valjean’s arms, shifting until he can sit upright at his full height and dip down to catch Valjean’s lips in a fleeting kiss. “And what might you do with me when you have me?”

Blinking back to at least a modicum of wakefulness, Valjean chuckles and bounds to his feet with an energy that belies his exhaustion, drawing Javert with him even as he is careful not to jostle his feet. He leans up to kiss the other man again. “Why don’t we go inside, and I’ll show you,” he teases, a twinkle in his eye. “You are frozen to the bone, and I know of better ways to warm you up than sitting out here on the stoop.”

Despite his obvious enthusiasm, he is careful in his movements and tender with his touch. The moon is high in the sky, and the hour is verging on early rather than late, and Valjean finds himself yawning even as he offers his arm to his partner. “Inside?”

Obligingly, Javert allows himself to be led back inside, Valjean’s elbow extended in a gentlemanly manner and Javert’s hand resting lightly on his forearm. “You present a strong case,” he mutters, lips quirking in the shadow of a grin that he will never completely allow to blossom. “By all means, lead on.” Even so, he too yawns, mouth stretching wide as he steps back inside.

They forge a sleepy and stumbling path up to the bedroom, pausing here and there to share a sweet kiss against a wall. They are in no rush, are not heralded by a great wave of lust or an overwhelming press of desire—indeed, it is simply care and affection that drive them tonight, not least because of the waves of exhaustion threatening to overcome them both at any given moment.

Once in the bedroom, Valjean pauses, head canted as he stares up at Javert with an unreadable expression on his face.

“What?” policeman snaps, neck flushing red under the intense scrutiny. He is pink all over, collar gaping open to expose blushing skin beneath a smattering of dark hair, cheeks tinted with ardor as his chest rises and falls with rapid breaths.

Valjean is certain his own appearance is no less disheveled, but he doubts that he manages to exude the same unintentional appeal as Javert. The other man is not exactly beautiful—he would be the first to scoff and point out his slightly-too-large nose and stern features, his broad shoulders and wide hands offset by a lean runner’s frame, his icy blue-grey eyes that glare out from a darker-than-average face. Yet, there is an unconscious _something_ —not grace, Javert is too calculated in his movements to wield any modicum of tact—but rather a sort of innocent, unknowing disregard for all the things that one might indeed find appealing.

That nose and frown lines now turn more often to a smile, or at minimum a smirk and wry snort. His tall frame is beloved, at times a shelter and at others a welcome challenge to certain bedroom adventures. His hands—coarse and precise and curt but never cruel—are now kind, cautious, timid and tender and all other manner of adjectives as they explore and caress and tease and hold.

In Javert’s eyes, Jean sees his entire world reflected back at him.

Some of his thoughts must show on his face, for Javert’s embarrassed flush blooms into a full-on flower of red, his hair falling down to hide his eyes as he ducks his head, a curtain of silver-streaked chestnut that shields him from sight. “I have learned by now that to tell you that such a depth of affection is misguided will only be breath wasted on my part,” he mutters, lips twitching even as his eyes skirt along Valjean’s brow line, refusing to settle and connect, “but must you stare so? We both know I am not handsome, or even striking, or any other descriptive word one might conjure up while gripped in the throes of affection.”

Shaking his head, Valjean catches Javert’s chin in one strong hand, holding his face steady so that the other can rise to card gently through the loose strands of hair hanging about his face. “You are breathtaking,” he murmurs, and his conviction in the statement burns so strongly that Javert cannot help but surrender in turn and be consumed by the flames.

He cants his head so that his lips press against Valjean’s palm, brushes a kiss across the pad of his thumb, and hums, earlier stirrings of arousal now all but eclipsed by a bone-deep sense of contentment. It is only these most recent years with Valjean that Javert has come to acknowledge or even _experience_ this, to accept the affections and attention of another as anything other than a desperate ruse to avoid arrest.

Despite himself, he feels his eyes growing heavy, and without thought steers them toward the bed. “Sleep?” he suggests, finding himself suddenly monosyllabic in the face of the sweeping wave of exhaustion that has crested and crashed. His toe aches, though he will never admit, and his body and mind are wrought with the fatigue he has been keeping at bay these last few days. Clumsily, he divests himself of his coat and settles it across the edge of the bed frame. His movements are nearly mechanical as he slides back under the covers, legs stiff and throbbing toe held gingerly aloft. Once settled, he turns to Valjean and holds up one corner of the comforter up in silent invitation, eyelids already sagging under the weight of his exhaustion.

Disguising his smile as a nod, Valjean quickly undresses down to his boxers and slips in beside him, spooning up behind the taller man and tucking his chin over his shoulder. “Go to sleep, my dear,” he hums, pressing a quick kiss to Javert’s brow and smoothing a hand across his arm until he can claim the hand to which it is attached. “Tomorrow is another day.”

Javert is already asleep, and Jean smiles, kisses the back of his neck, and follows suit.

——

Tomorrow dawns, a crisp bright Monday morning that heralds the start of a new week.

Javert, forgetting his call to the precinct the day prior while Valjean was out, awakens with the adrenaline-surging thought that he has, for the first time in a thirty-year career, slept through his alarm and is late for work.

Awareness is slow to trickle through the frantic tumbleweed of his thoughts, reality settling in slowly and in staggered increments. He is not late for work, he is not even _going_ to work, Chabouillet has given him at least two weeks off,with options for the remainder of his recovery to be “reassessed at a later date.” He knows as well as his chief that he will be granted whatever leave he chooses to request—it just remains to be seen whether desk duty is preferable to time spent at home.

Groaning, Javert rolls until his face is pressed tightly into the pillow, shutting out the aggravatingly-cheerful light trickling through the slanted blinds in the bedroom he shares with Jean. Perhaps he can simply sleep his way through this mandatory period of sloth.

He flails blindly beside him with one arm until he grasps the corner of Jean’s pillowcase, the other man having long since risen, and slings it up and over the back of his head, sandwiching himself between the two pillows and all but smothering himself in the sham beneath him. It is hardly comfortable, yet he finds himself nodding off once more despite the press of down and linen, lulled by the softness of the mattress and the stark reality that he has in fact had far too little sleep of late.

Time passes indeterminately, and Javert floats in that hazy in-between of sleep and wakefulness for what has to be the first time in years.

Distantly, he hears the click of the door and feels the mattress dip beneath a solid weight, Valjean’s broad frame lowering itself beside him and wrapping itself around his prone form. Mumbling a string of curses, Javert finds himself liberated from his makeshift pillow fort and tugged sideways until he is tucked snugly against Jean’s front, pressed back-to-chest.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Valjean hums, his lips tickling the sliver of Javert’s shoulder bared by his disheveled sleep shirt. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to wake up.”

“Not awake,” Javert mutters, squirming slightly against Jean’s grip as he attempts to reclaim his stolen pillow. They wrestle halfheartedly for a moment, Javert reaching back in a vain attempt to recover his bounty. Covers shift as he moves, slipping down his shoulders and settling around his hips and the curve of his rear, where something _else_ also rests, pressing quite interestedly against him.

Suddenly, Javert is a _great_ deal more awake. He stretches, slowly, flexing the muscles in his back and shoulders as he wrests his arms free of Valjean’s koala-like embrace and splays them out above his head, fingers twining as he rolls his shoulders and presses back against his partner with a devilish smile. 

“If this were what awaited me _every_ morning,” he says, lowering his arms to wrap his hands around the iron bars of Valjean’s biceps at his chest, “they would be good mornings indeed.”

Valjean snorts and, in a dextrous move better-suited to someone a few decades his junior, flips them so that Javert is pressed back against the pillows, Valjean nestled between his splayed thighs and his nose pressing into Javert’s neck. “This _could_ be what you wake up to every day,” he huffs, sucking a mark just above Javert’s collarbone, “if you weren’t gone for your morning shift—or not yet back from your night shift—before I arose.”

Javert bares his teeth, his answering groan only partially a complaint. “I am _not_ going to retire yet, Jean,” he replies, angling his head to expose his neck to the wet suction of Jean’s mouth. He shivers as the other man finds the throbbing pulse in his throat, nipping at that most vulnerable part of him, and traces it downward. Javert’s nerves sing at the touch, and he presses up halfheartedly against the hands that pin him to the mattress as Valjean leaves a bright mark against his skin.

“I wouldn’t dream of asking such a thing,” Valjean replies, giving Javert an earnest look before releasing him long enough to peel Javert’s shirt off and leaving him bared to the cool air of the bedroom. “Only that perhaps you adjust your schedule to allow yourself more time to be home, and at more regular hours.”

Teeth bared, Javert slings an arm around the back of Valjean’s neck and tugs him down for a blistering kiss. “I suppose I could be persuaded,” he replies, drawing back slightly. He smiles in earnest, teeth glinting in the morning light, and a bolt of blistering affection lances through Valjean at the genuine happiness and love in the expression.

Instinct takes over and he grinds his hips down, relishing Javert’s answering hitched gasp. He cups Javert’s face in both palms and kisses him sweetly, trailing from corner to corner of Javert’s mouth before his tongue flickers out to dart between Javert’s parted lips. It is a slow, leisurely kiss, but no less lacking in passion for it. Valjean traces every crevice of Javert’s mouth, one hand sliding up to bury itself in Javert’s long, loose hair as the other creeps lower, dances across his chest and down to the v-shape of his abdomen.

Javert’s hips jerk upward, seeking the friction of Valjean’s prick against his own, the muscles of his stomach twitching against Valjean’s fingers. “Jean,” he groans, eyes fluttering as he catches his bottom lip between his teeth, struggling fruitlessly against the weight of Valjean’s hips that now pin him down. “Do not tease.”

That daring hand creeps lower, dips beneath the waistband of Javert’s pajama pants. “Who is teasing?”

Javert _whines,_ hands flying in a frenzy to strip Jean’s own shirt from his shoulders, fingers dancing across his muscled back, pulling him down without prologue so that the knees on which he has been bracing himself lose their balance and he instead lands atop Javert, chest-to-chest and hip-to-hip, his prick pressing insistently against Javert’s. “Certainly not you; I hardly think you know the meaning of the word.” Javert punctuates his sentence with a sharp drive upward, causing Jean’s breath to catch in his chest.

All traces of humor are wiped from Javert’s face as Valjean’s hand finds its mark, lightly tracing along his prick from base to tip. Expression going slack, Javert breathes sharply through his nose, arcing up into Jean’s hand. He wriggles his lower body, trying to shed his pants without removing his arms from where they are wrapped around Jean’s chest and despite the weight of Jean’s lower body that holds his legs in place.

Taking pity on him, Valjean sits back and retrieves his hand, drawing off Javert’s pants and then shimmying out of his own before he lowers himself back to seize Javert’s lips in another blistering kiss. This time he grinds against Javert in truth, hands braced on either side of Javert’s head as he bears down upon the other man. Their eyes lock, catch and hold and bore into one another, Jean’s warm hazel darkened with ardor and latching onto Javert’s wild blue-grey. They are lost in one another and the delicious press of their pricks, a delicious friction and slick slide of skin-on-skin that has both men gasping into each other’s mouths. Javert’s hands are everywhere, his concentration shot and his body awash in sensation, his thoughts entirely overtaken by feeling. His breaths increase in tempo, and Jean can feel a stuttering hitch in his thrusts that indicate he is nearing the brink.

“Not yet,” he commands, lips twitching as he pauses and Javert all but growls in aggravation at the sudden cessation of pressure against his cock. Valjean fastens his hands around Javert’s wrists, draws back so that he is sitting on his knees, and flips the other man, planting him face-down on the mattress with his arms pinioned beneath his chest. The ease with which he does so would be disconcerting to Javert in any other man, but in Jean it is simply arousing, desire curling low in his gut and rising until he is utterly engulfed by its flames.

In this position, Javert cannot help feel terribly exposed, his arms held beneath him and his rear end in the air, visibility limited to the sheets and, if he twists and contorts _just so_ , the edge of Jean’s shoulders and his beloved face. He can feel the whisper of Valjean at his back, the faintest brush of his partner’s touch against his burning skin as he hovers above him, looming and looking but not yet touching.

Javert’s entire being is on fire, burning with sensation and yearning to be filled, to go that final step and cross over the invisible line in the sand into that sense of completion, of the satiation and satisfaction that he finds he is now always craving. He wants nothing more than to let go and fall, plummet into a chasm that, this time, is not frigid rapids and churning dark waves, but instead the cresting pleasure and wholesome sense of completion only brought about by one other being.

All at once, his world tilts on its axis, careening back into orbit from where it has been hovering in stasis these last, long, torturous moments. Where there was nothing, suddenly Jean is there, filling that void and blanketing him completely with his body. Warm lips fasten to his neck, a calloused hand curling around his front to lift his torso up from the mattress and press firmly against his chest. Valjean’s own chest slots against his back, his hips pressing to his bum and his cock slotting between his thighs.

It is just enough to drive him wild.

It is not nearly enough.

“Damn it, Valjean,” Javert whines, twisting his head to catch Valjean’s lips in an awkward kiss. “Would you please fuck me?” His fingers scrabble for purchase against the mattress, catch and twist in the sheets as he grinds back against his lover, Valjean’s prick sliding against his with each backward rut of his hips and teasing him closer and closer to an edge over which he knows only Jean can send him.

Valjean nips at his lips, licks along their seam and into his mouth, teases a nipple into hardness with practiced fingers—and then the hand is gone from his chest, and there is a moment of silence and stillness, and then there is a cool, slick finger prodding at his entrance, teasing and tracing the rim before slipping inside.

Groaning at the sensation, Javert tries to jerk backward, to take in all of Valjean’s offering, but he is held still by a strong grip at his hip, entirely at Jean’s mercy. The thought is a delicious torment. If he had been told some years before that he would enjoy being taken apart by Jean Valjean he would have had the person declared quite mad. As it is, now he groans low in his throat as a second finger joins the first, eases him open in steady increments, toys and teases and works him over until he is a writhing, soundless mass in the sheets.

Mouth open, he pants into the pillow, thighs splayed wide and hips jerking uselessly toward the bed, unable to decide between seeking the friction of the mattress against his prick or the press of Jean’s fingers against that delightful bundle of nerves buried deep within him. “Please,” he finally gasps, head hanging low, “please Jean.”

Suddenly the fingers are withdrawn, and Javert feels empty, _so_ very empty, until something much larger prods at his hole and then he is filled beyond reasoning, Jean’s prick sliding home until Javert is fully impaled. “Yessss,” he hisses, grinding back and causing Jean to groan in response.

That tormenting, teasing hand slips down over his hips to close around his own prick, thumb swiping across the head and giving him something to rut against as Jean begins a steady drive into him.

“You feel amazing, my love,” the older man gasps, pressing a sweaty kiss to the back of Javert’s neck, his cock pressing against Javert’s prostrate with each successive thrust. “You are one of the two greatest things to have ever happened to me, no matter what you say to the contrary.” It is his last coherent thought for a while as his pleasure begins to crest, and he increases the motions of his hand as he feels Javert begin to stutter against him in turn.

There are no words, no vocalizations for a few long moments, the morning punctuated only by the slip-slide of skin-against-skin and the groan of the mattress beneath the force of Jean’s movements. Then, a gasp, a sigh of release, and Javert throws himself backwards against Jean’s prick even as Jean drives forward, draping himself across Javert’s shaking back as his hips stutter out his own release. They remain motionless for a quiet eternity, shaking with exertion, until finally Javert twists enough to press kisses along the beloved lines of Jean’s face, silently mouthing the three words that are even now are so difficult for him to say.

“I know,” Valjean whispers, ghosting a hand across Javert’s cheek before slipping free and falling to lay beside his partner. He guides Javert onto his back, traces a formless pattern across his chest before mouthing at his shoulder. “I love you, too.” Settling back against the headboard, Jean draws Javert to settle against his side, head pressed against his sternum so that he can comb his hands through the policeman’s hair. There is a mess to clean up, but those logistics can wait at least a few moments longer, when this quiet moment of sanctitude has passed and they must indeed rise to face the day.

“See?” he hums, the rumble of his voice a delicious vibration against Javert’s cheek where it is pressed against his pectoral. “Wasn’t that a most improved manner of welcoming the day?”

Javert slips one large hand up across abdominals still tacky with drying sweat, curls it gently around Valjean’s side and flexes, thumb following an idle pattern. “If you awaken me like that every morning,” Javert murmurs, more than a touch of amusement in his voice, “I sincerely doubt I will ever make it to work again at all.”

Jean smiles. “Then I must endeavor to do so every morning of your convalescence,” he promises, curling his hand over Javert’s and raising it to his lips, brushing a kiss across his knuckles.

Snorting at the old-fashioned gesture, Javert squeezes the hand in his grasp. “I am hardly a bedridden invalid, Jean,” he gripes good-naturedly, twining his legs with Valjean’s. “I expect to follow my regular routine, simply without work for a while.”

Impishly, Valjean snakes his free hand lower. Though most assuredly spent, Javert is still sensitive, and he shudders at the touch, eyes glazing over as Valjean’s fingers spider across his tender flesh.

“Then we shall fill those empty hours most productively,” Jean promises.

It would take a stronger man by far than Javert to refuse such an oath, were he inclined in any way to do so in the first place. He smiles, bright and wolfish and genuine.

“I very much look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> What happened to Javert’s injured toe during the sex? Good question. I don’t think he knows either.


End file.
